I was about 12, standing in the kitchen of my great-aunt’s house at her annual Christmas party — yapping away to a handful of older relatives. Whatever I was passionately declaring probably wasn’t nearly as consequential as I thought at the time, but to my adolescent mind it clearly needed saying. My dad, leaning against the kitchen counter, bemused by his eldest child’s confidence, turned to me and said, “You are so gregarious.”
It wasn’t what he said — and probably not even the tone — but something in me sensed it wasn’t meant as a compliment. All my brain heard, and all I felt, was: you are being too much.
I’ve replayed that moment regularly ever since.
But why do I remember it so vividly? I’ve always had a great relationship with my dad. I trust his love completely, so why do those four words still carry such shame?
I've always suspected that my sensitivity to – and the lasting impact of – seemingly minor events has been disproportionate in many situations. I over-explain, overthink, over-analyse. I’m hyper-aware of how I’m being perceived.
It wasn’t what Dad said, but something in me sensed it wasn’t meant as a compliment. All my brain heard was: you are being too much.
If a colleague doesn't respond to what I share, I assume they think my idea is stupid. But if they do, I assume they’re just placating me.
If a friend says, “Can we talk?” I’m convinced they're unhappy with me.
If a family member says “it's ok,” my brain tells me it's most likely not.
If you say, “Yes, if you want to,” I hear, “Yes, but I don’t want you to”.
I know how illogical this sounds – irrational even. None of this made sense until one night this year, 25 years after my aunt’s party. It was 2am and I was deep in a TikTok rabbit hole when I discovered a whole world of people who not only act like me, but feel like me too. And the condition is a legitimate thing and has a name: Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD).
RSD is the name given to the intense, overwhelming emotional pain triggered by perceived rejection, criticism, or failure. For those who suffer with it, tiny comments or even neutral expression can feel unbearable. It’s not just hurt feelings; it’s visceral – and they’ll replay it over and over.
I dug further. Researchers think RSD occurs in children with ADHD because, on average, they hear 20,000 more words of criticism than neurotypical children.
I've always suspected that my sensitivity is disproportionate in many situations. I over-explain, overthink, over-analyse.
“You talk too much.”
“Just sit still.”
“Concentrate.”
And those school reports that always include a variation on: “They have so much potential, if they’d only apply themselves.”
Interesting. I am one of thousands of women in the UK with self-diagnosed ADHD – one of the many who masked it at school when the consensus was that ADHD was a label reserved for ‘naughty’ boys who needed to be medicated.
That night, things fell into place for me. With my new knowledge I could start to reflect on how RSD has shaped two areas of my life in contradictory ways.
Professionally, if I sense potential failure, I run. I procrastinate. I quit before I can be rejected.
But in relationships, the opposite happens: I stay. I try harder. I give more of myself, chip away at my needs to meet someone else’s. I’ve stayed in relationships years longer than I wanted to — too scared to walk away. And if someone I’ve dated for just a few weeks ends things, I collapse.
That night, things fell into place for me. With my new knowledge I could start to reflect on how Rejection Sensitivity Disordee has shaped my life.
Until now, I have always assumed I’m the problem. I spent years in therapy, analysing my childhood, my romantic and work relationships, trying to understand why I did this. All the therapy made me feel like I was something that needed fixing. But discovering RSD has made things make sense.
I know now I am not broken. I’m armed with the knowledge that I can try scary things and survive the feelings that follow. And I’m armed with the knowledge of how to support my daughter and her big feelings too.
Now, at bedtime when she’s replaying the playground dynamics to me for the fifth night in a row, I know better than to brush it off with “that’s just what some children are like”. Tough love isn’t going to work with her, just as it didn’t with me. So now I tell her this: you have a big heart, and your big heart feels a lot – much more than other people’s - and that’s ok. In fact, it's a superpower.